


I'm Not That Girl

by elluvias



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elluvias/pseuds/elluvias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Hawke wanted was love and a life that could be her own and a man she could love. Unfortunately she surrounds herself with the emotionally damaged unavailable crazies and is a mage to boot. Life isn't sunshine and roses, but she'll make it through one day at a time. Warning: Will contain fluff, random singing, angst, and insanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not That Girl

Hawke had always known that it was to be doomed from the start. Why would anyone want her? She wasn’t even really a person, an ideal, a story; a legend brought to life and spun into something that wasn’t human or tangible. First she was a curse, a blight upon the land, sing coursing through her veins like poison. Then she was the protector, the eldest, the shield for her family. Now she was a protector of more than that. She wasn’t real, she wasn’t human. No one saw her as such, no one saw her as her.

She was Hawke.

She was Hawke, woman of infinite patience towards her broken friends. She could fix any problem they threw her way with a blink of an eye and a wry smile, barely even a hair out of place. She was a goddess of war and peace sent to them from the mists of old, half insane and half miracle stirred with courage and seasoned with luck.

Thinking she was anything else was just folly. Something stupid and infinitely wrong. Perhaps she should take a vow of chastity. Perhaps she should just excise her heart from her chest. Yet no, she hadn’t done that. She had gone home, crawled herself into a bottle til she couldn’t see straight. Then in her highly inappropriate attire had weaved herself through the darkened streets of Hightown. She didn’t care if she, the prim and properly dressed Hawke looked little better than Isabela. Perhaps it was her own sense of propriety that had chased Fenris away from her. Bare feet moved over the hard stone, uncaring that her soles were getting dirty. It would likely match the dirtiness of her own soul, marred and blackened by the very taint of existence. A taint she had submitted to when she first took her breath, when she wailed her arrival into the world she was likely keening the loss of her soul.

How could she feel like she had lost her soul when she’d never had one to begin with? The ache in her heart was just her imagination. So she furiously and fervently told herself as she walked up the stairs to the Chantry in nothing but Carver’s old shirt. It hung large and loose around her frame, coming down to mid thigh. Her black hair fell to her waist. For once, the dark tresses weren’t pinned up in a formal bun. No they hung in half curls and waves that were simply a longer version of what Bethany once had.

Poor Bethany, sweet Bethany. She’d offer to set Fenris on fire if she’d been able to see Hawke like this. Carver would likely try to cleave Fenris’ head from his shoulders. For all his inherit bitchiness, Carver would eviscerate anyone who’d hurt his sister with a rusty blunted spoon. It was a rare moment that she was glad Carver was with the Grey Wardens. It meant that there was only Mother to hide her heartache from, and Mother was deceptively easy to lie to. Then again Mother didn’t wish to see her eldest as anything but strong and brave.

Her green eyes filled up with tears, she wanted to banish them. She wanted them to go away, because this wasn’t allowed. She wasn’t human, she wasn’t worthy of being in pain. She had to be strong, she had to be…She had to be the leader. Leaders didn’t break down, mages didn’t break down. The vile curse felt bitter in her mouth even though the word was just a thought.

She hadn’t hated herself, not before. Hawke had simply thought magic was. There were no ifs or ands about it, it existed and it existed in her. She was whom she was, and there was nothing wrong with simply existing.

Then she’d been taught differently, she was a monster a curse. A magister in the making. She was to be something that mothers warned their children about. A veritable boogeyman for ages to come. She was an abomination waiting to happen. Magic cursed and stained her, made her into something so utterly vile and reprehensible that she could bewitch without even meaning to, that it would take another woman’s touch. A whore’s touch, to erase the brutal horrible stain she had left on Fenris.

She was a weapon, she was a horrible terrible weapon. Her breath rushed out of her as she half knelt half collapsed in the floor of the Chantry. Tears sliding down her cheeks and onto the floor with soft little drips that echoed in the cavernous hall of the Chantry.

Hawke tilted her face up towards the gilded statue. She had felt a certain…kinship with Andraste. Their love of song had joined in them in a way that Hawke could barely understand. Speaking to Andraste was sometimes a waste, yet there was a form of communication she hadn’t used since she’d come here. It had died and dried up in her throat when her father had died, the urge to sing falling from her like a bird shot by an arrow. Yet, the lady had understood song, understood it’s power. Understood that it could give meaning to something words couldn’t always express when simply speaking.

“Hands touch, eyes meet,  
sudden silence, sudden heat  
hearts leap in a giddy world.  
He could be that boy,  
but I'm not that girl  
Don't dream too far, don't lose sight of who you are,  
don't remember that rush of joy.  
He could be that boy,  
I'm not that girl”

Her voice was quiet as she began to sing, her voice quivering in pain as she loosed the words and melody into the silent chantry. She stared up at the golden statue, trying to communicate in her own type of prayer what was going on.

“Every so often we long to steal,  
to the land of what might have been,  
but that doesn't soften the ache we feel  
when reality sets back in.”

It didn’t, it never did. She had been so foolish to even think Fenris had wanted her. She was dirty, the very thing he hated. She must have wove some magic, she must have unintentionally manipulated him into this. Hawke had been taught, been raised that life was going to be lonely. She was an apostate. She was on the run, attaching herself to people was foolhardy at the best of times. Even if she wasn’t a mage, she was Hawke. She was pretty in her own right, or so her mother and Bethany often told her. Yet she wasn’t pretty enough, she wasn’t sauve enough, or whorish enough to get what she had wanted.

“Blythe smile, lithe limb  
she who's winsome,  
she wins him,  
black hair with a gentle curl,  
that's the girl he chose  
and heaven knows,  
I'm not that girl  
don't wish, don't start  
wishing only wounds the heart,  
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl”

She wasn’t made for finery. She was made for tiny houses on the edges of woods, with land to plow and gardens to tend. She was made for picking of a staff and beating her enemies bloody, or setting them on fire. She was made for sitting in bars and listening to improbable stories about herself. She was made for reading books by firelight and listening to rain. She wasn’t made for being charmed or wooed. She wasn’t made for, Maker forbid, romance. More tears slid out of her eyes as she painfully came to that realization. She wasn’t made for romance, she wasn’t made for finding a man like Mother did. She wasn’t made for Fenris. She was made to be alone.

“there's a girl I know,  
he loves her so,  
I'm not that girl.”

The last note wavered and broke as she gasped, hands coming to her face to hide her shame. A broken sob escaped. She’d done what her father had warned her against. She had fallen in love. She loved Fenris. She loved his intelligent eyes as they scanned a room, and his dry humor. She loved his vicious nature, she loved his passion and his pride. She loved how easily frustrated he got with Anders. She loved Fenris, faults and all. She’d made a gamble with him, a bet she’d lost, and Isabela got the spoils. Like she always did if they played Wicked Grace. Hawke knew Isabela hadn’t cheated this time though, and the fault….the fault of the broken heart, of the relationship turning to ashes, was solely Hawke’s fault.

So it wasn’t to be her fault that she hadn’t heard him approaching. If Hawke was in a better mood, she’d have told Anders that no one knew when he was approaching. He was sneaky like that. A veritable sneak of a mage, the sneakiest sneak to have ever sneaked. She probably would have rambled on about his abilities to be sneaky if she hadn’t so thoroughly been surprised by having a coat wrapped around her, followed by a pair of muscular arms that no common circle bred mage should have. Then again Anders wasn’t common. Anders was…he was…He was Anders.

“I’ll set him on fire and hide Isabela’s salve. She’s going to have a nasty itch, maybe he’ll get it and I won’t have to actively set him aflame, his burning crotch will be punishment enough.”

The awkward horrible attempt at humor had Hawke snorting through her sobs, a small smile teasing her lips. She took her hands from her face and looked up, looked at the scruffy face of the man she had almost fallen for. She sniffled again as he moved her, sitting on the floor and pulling her into his lap.

“Am I ugly?”

Perhaps it wasn’t the best of questions to ask. It probably wasn’t the best response to his ill timed humor or his warm embrace. It probably wasn’t even remotely good that her voice wavered and broke and sounded so lost. He smelled like spearmint, chamomile, and lemongrass, of sunshine and a hint of sweat, lyrium and magic with that masculine undertone that made him Anders in her head. He tensed, his arms tightening around her.

“No sweetheart, you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, just because you don’t have an excess of breasts doesn’t mean that you aren’t more than amply endowed. Maker’s breath, you give men fantasies they shouldn’t be having and if you worked in the Blooming Rose you’d make a fortune.”

His fingers absently brushed a few strands of hair from her face. His hands were calloused, rough, but so gentle on her skin that she remembered he was a healer. That his fingers were perhaps the gentlest she’d ever encountered save her Mother and Mother only won because she was a delicate and gentle woman. She bit her lip as she tried to quell the newest onslaught of tears, wondering absently when they had stopped before, because she hadn’t noticed when.

“Is it because I’m a mage? Is it my magic? Could I have-“

“No! Maker no, listen to yourself Hawke! It wasn’t you.” The harsh words were gentled as Anders forced her to look at him, forced her to see him. “It wasn’t you sweetheart.” His voice was firm and it sounded like, an unalienable truth, something that the world could be based around. Hawke wanted to argue, so many things were her fault, why not this? Why not this ruined love that died before it could really take flight.

“Why isn’t it me?” She hoped he’d never tell anyone how small her voice sounded right then, how utterly hurt she felt. She was the eldest, she was a protector and the leader and any failing that happened was because of her. “I’m Hawke, I’m responsible for everything. I’m inhuman, a thing, an idea. I mean…who knows anything about me? I’m a living legend, whose favorite color isn’t pink. Who has a fear of spiders, I mean why should I be afraid of things with an unnatural amount of legs who are giant and like to eat people? Who knows my real name because I’m starting to think I never had one to begin with.” Her voice was bitter even to her own ears, the self hatred was so evident that she was certain Anders didn’t know what to do with it.

“Not everything that happens is your fault. Maker, we’ve done you no service have we?” Anders muttered the last part to himself, as if angry at his own foolishness for committing an injustice. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it at the moment, what he was angry about that was directed at himself but he relaxed a little more. “I know you have a real name, just as I have one. Anders isn’t really my name, it’s a nickname they gave me at the Circle. Something to distance myself from my memories of home and freedom, they tried to take me away from myself. Yet even being called by something different, something new, didn’t change me from who I was. Hawke doesn’t make you any less than a person, it’s the only label they can use to try and encompass everything that you are. Anders is what they gave me, Hawke is what they gave you but… if you want sweetheart I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

The way he said the last sentence made her ragged heart lurch and a laugh bubble up in her throat. It choked and floundered out because it sounded so wrong, so dirty, like they were two bumbling children stripping off each others’ clothes to look at their bits to see what /really/ made them different. It made her ache in a pleasant way imagining both her and Anders as children, what mischief and trouble they’d get up to. They’d probably have done that just because they were both the sort not to get why they weren’t supposed to see other people starkers.

“Moirae Mnemosyne Hawke.” She rubbed her hands on her tearstained face, trying to dry her skin off. “Father named me and Mother said that was the last time he got to name a child without her input. That’s why Carver and Bethany have such normal names. “

“Well normal is overrated and boring and you, Moirae, are not boring.” Anders grabbed a lock of her hair, gently tugging it as he grinned down at her. “I think your name is pretty, and that your father also had a deep love for Tevinter lore. Your first name is, hmmm the spirits of Fate. Not like the normal spirits of Virtues, but these were above and below the old gods. They determined life, the length, and the manner of death. It was said even the old gods feared them. Then Mnemosyne, that’s supposedly the pool or fountain in the middle of the Black City, the pool of memories… No wonder your family never says your name, saying it is like ‘Oh Mr. Templar look at me! Someone in my family is a mage, can you guess which one? Oh please put away that big pointy sword Mother will never approve.’.” Ander’s high mocking falsetto made her fight off another smile as she playfully punched his chest.

“Stop it!” A faint hint of a blush bloomed on her cheeks. “Now I’m imagining being sexually harassed by a templar. I won’t be able to look Ser Cullen in the eyes now without thinking about his big pointy sword.”

“Ser Cullen? Why on earth are you imagining Ser Cullen? Why not Keran, he’s much prettier than Ser Cullen.”

“But Ser Cullen’s voice is…” Moirae bit her lip as she caught herself, her face heating up even more.

“Voice? It isn’t his rugged good looks, it isn’t his big strong arms, or even the size of his sword. You’re attracted to his voice. Do you have a thing for Varric then? He has a lovely voice.”

“Oh Maker no! That’d be like having lusty thoughts on Carver…Hey! You’re distracting me. Tell me your name.” Her mouth turned down into a frown as she tried to muster up some sort of righteous anger at the indignity of revealing her name but having Anders weasel around and keep her from remembering that he was just as nameless as she was. She tried not to think that he was distracting her from other things as well, from pain and heartache and too much responsibility placed on a girl barely 21 years old.

With a put upon sigh and a mildly pained look he cleared his throat. “Siegfried von Goethe at your service serrah.”

Moirae coughed trying to hide the laugh that bubbled up from her belly. “The rebel mage extraordinaire, lover supremis, defender of the low and meek…and your real name is so..so…” She let out another giggle, unable to help it, and leaned her face into Ande-Siegfried’s chest to try and smother the mirth. “No wonder you usually run around calling yourself Anders. Every common speaking person from Fereldan to the Free Marches would have a giggle at your name before finding themselves on fire no doubt. I bet the templars did you a kindness giving you that nickname.”

“Hey now, I told you my name in the utmost of confidences. You’re not allowed to go spreading it around like some horrible giggle inducing disease. I’m a healer; I can’t be blamed for any sort of outbreak. What do you think it’d do to my reputation as a healer?”

Another giggle escaped and she wondered, vaguely, what life would have been like if she’d met Anders before his foray into not quite abomination territory. They’d have gotten along even more famously than they did now. She would probably have felt safer, freer with him than she did now. She might’ve even been able to tell him everything without the threat of Justice coming forth. Yet, she knew she would always have to check herself before she spoke with him about anything mage related. Her views fit with no one in her odd squad, stuck somewhere between Anders and Fenris.

Wasn’t that her life through?

She was always stuck somewhere in-between, not rebel enough for Anders, not templar loving enough for Fenris. She was too law abiding for Isabela, not law abiding enough for Aveline, firm on her views of blood magic. That was it she was going to camp out in Varric’s suite at the Hanged Man, order him to tell her stories get sodding drunk and fall asleep there. She hadn’t done that in years, not since a particularly horrible night that had forced her from Gamlen’s hovel in tears. Oh Maker when Varric found out about this debacle he was going to put a bolt into Fenris’ crotch.

Varric was the older brother, cousin, uncle person dwarf thing that Moirae had always wished she had.

“An-Siegfried?” Her voice was soft again as she finally shifted off his lap and onto the cold Chantry floor. She felt his attention hone in on her again as she stood up, carefully keeping his coat wrapped around her. She swayed like a tree in the breeze back in Fereldan. Still she kept her balance before he could reach out and steady her, yet when he didn’t stop his motion, put his hands on her anyway she didn’t shrug him off.

“Can you escort me to the Hanged Man?”

“Moirae I think you’ve had enough to drink.” His voice was concerned, not chastising despite the words and it made her smile. She shook her head and tilted her head to look up at him, noticing the grey at his temples and flecking his stubble. He was older than her by a good decade at least, and so world worn yet, like with all her companions she found him fascinating and handsome. Maker she really had an age kink didn’t she?

“No no, I just don’t want to go home. I mean mother’s there and she’ll be all disapproving and disappointed that I wasn’t perfect. I try to live up to her expectations and when it comes down to it I don’t. I don’t want to go back to my bed, not tonight, not when the memories are lingering.” She trailed off and closed her eyes, reliving the phantom touches that Fenris had bestowed upon her. “I just, I want to go somewhere safe.” The words tumbled out because Siegfried could understand that, she knew. He’d understand her need to run from duty from obligations and disappointment more than anyone else would.

The problem was Moirae couldn’t quite remember what feeling safe was anymore. Had she ever?

“No, Hawke I don’t…” Siegfried trailed off before his hands tightened on her shoulders. “Come with me to Darktown tonight. I can make sure you’re safe and in the morning you can help me with the clinic, a legitimate excuse to get away from everyone else. It isn’t nice, and it can barely be called comfortable but it’ll take a little bit before our friends find us.”

It took her a moment, as she tried to think of a counter argument. It wasn’t working, while the Hanged Man and Varric’s suite would be comfortable it would also mean that Isabela might be there. Moirae didn’t want to sound like she hated her pirate friend, and had often done her damndest to roll with the punches, but there were some hurts that took a minute or five to get over. Was it wrong to be mad at Isabela for being Isabela? Maybe, maybe not but she felt guilt for it. She felt guilt for wanting to be older, more worldly wise, and have whatever quality that made men fall for Isabela and pass Moirae over like she was last week’s news.

“But I’ll want to cuddle.” Mentally she wanted to smack herself but Siegfried…Maker damnit it all this was hard! “And, can I…can I just call you Anders?” She trailed of lamely, feeling like a fool, because maybe he wanted to be called by his Maker given name, but it was so damn hard to think of him as anything else but Anders.

When he laughed she wanted nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die. This was why she didn’t drink in excess too often, using the trick her mother had taught her to make it seem like she had. She made a fool of herself, she lost that hard ‘Hawke’ness that made her a leader of a group of mentally questionable group of people who were far far too good at what they did. Still tonight had seemed like a wonderful exception, and what did it get her? In the middle of the Chantry in no pants or shoes turning a lovely shade of red and hugging Anders’ coat around her like a shield.

“Sweetheart you can call me Arch Duke of Dingleberry if that makes you comfortable. Siegfried von Goethe was a long time ago, and while parts of that boy remain I’m a different person. Anders is fine, if I didn’t like it then when I came here I would have simply reverted back to my real name.” He lifted his hands from her shoulders and tucked stray pieces of hair behind her ears with a gentleness that seemed innate in him when it came to everyone except Templars and Fenris. His smile was wry but kind. “Also cuddling, while completely and utterly detrimental to one’s moral character and everlasting soul, is something I won’t run away from. Talking Darkspawn, Knight Commander Greagoir, Senior Enchanter Wynne, Circle Towers, Grey Warden Commander Surana, and laundry duty in the Deep Roads I will run from, very quickly in fact. Cuddling, not so much, despite the peril it puts on my soul.”

A smile teased her lips again. “Well that settles it then, immoral cuddling and clinic duty in hopes of cleansing my sins in the morning. I wonder how many ‘Hail Andraste’s I’ll need to do before my soul is pure again.”

“With the debauched cuddling I have planned it’ll take the rest of your life.” He maneuvered her arm secure around her shoulders as he lead her out of the Chantry. As he led her down the steps he paused for a moment. “Moirae, we’re going to have to stop by your house to at least get you some shoes. Perhaps clothes?”

She tilted her head up at him, nibbling her bottom lip before she nodded. “Shoes, nothing else, except maybe Dirthamen but only if you can get him to come with you quietly. I don’t want to go in…” The fondly exasperated look he was giving her made her stiffen stubbornly. “It’s perfectly reasonable not to want to go into my home! I’ll wait out here for shoes, besides…” She trailed off flushing. “Most of my clothes are in the toxic laundry pile and those that aren’t…aren’t Darktown appropriate. This isn’t even my shirt, its Carver’s old shirt and Maker stop smiling at me like that! Just go in and do your sneaky apostate thing, filch my boots and dog and I can just borrow your clothes til I muster up enough courage to actually return home.” She shooed him towards the door, knowing Bodhan was already asleep and so was her mother.

“If I’m going to sneak into your home I’m not going to do it through the front door. Don’t you have any sense for the art of subterfuge? No, of course not, your usual plan is ‘let’s run in there and set things on fire and perhaps stab them for good measure to make sure they’re dead’.” The way he wiggled his fingers then pretended to stab an imaginary assailant was comical, she admitted in the darkest part of her heart not wishing to give him more ammunition for further jokes later on.

“That’s a perfectly legitimate plan! It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?” She raised her eyebrow, as if daring him to come up with one time that her plan of ‘set things on fire and stab them til they’re dead’ didn’t work out well.

“Certainly but I for one have more finesse then that.” His head tilted up in a mock show of arrogance, an almost perfect impression of some hoity toady noble. The sniff at the end made her fight back a smile.

“I know, how can’t I? You wear feathered pauldrins.” Her voice was dry, a mocking imitation of Fenris. Still her eyes were lighting up with mirth and she could tell his eyes were glimmering with mischief as well.

“Well sense you’re wearing my coat right now, you’re the one wearing the feathered pauldrins and therefore you must yield to the inevitable need for finesse that comes with them. Now watch and learn about why I was able to escape the damned Circle Tower seven times.” She had to say she was always impressed with the amount of times he’d been able to escape the Circle Tower. What she was less impressed with was how many times he had gotten caught. She was one day going to sit him down and have a lengthy discussion of ‘how to hide from templars’ that her father once had with her.

“You’re not about to start hoarding small clothes right here are you?”

They broke off, laughter no longer being able to be held at bay. Her breathless giggles and his chuckles echoed in the empty street. When Anders wanted to, it seemed he could bring merriment to the darkest of places. He could soothe a hurt that had no magic cure and he did it all with a warm sparkle in his eye and a quirk of his lips. Trading barbs was how they both survived it seemed, when life was a joke no one looked at you to see how serious you took everything. Yet he was going even a step farther her drunken mind realized, he was distracting her from her own pain, not even letting it be a shield but a balm on a wounded soul.

“You win that round.” His smile was easy and warm. “Now watch.” He waggled his eyebrows before taking her to another side of the mansion. He studied the wall closely and Moirae studied Anders. He wasn’t as pretty as Fenris, he wasn’t as exotic but there was something compelling about him. His lean face, the rough stubble, the way his emotions played across his face so easily and yet they were hidden all the same. He was a rogue in his own quirky way, and somehow she could see the trail of broken hearts left behind him.

He said that he didn’t want to hurt her, that she should just give up on him. She had, or had tried to. Moirae wasn’t a woman who could change a man for the better. She wasn’t even the girl guys wanted for more than a single night. It hurt, knowing that she wanted something she could never have. Marriage, a family, a husband, a home… It wasn’t even because she was a mage. It was because Moirae was simply Moirae.

Still she took herself from those thoughts as Anders began to climb the wall to the window outside her bedroom door. She blinked once, then twice, mentally making sure she hadn’t imbibed in any alcoholic beverage that might have caused her to hallucinate. Lips falling open as she tilted her head back to watch his progression, she wondered if she should add this to the list of ‘skill sets my friends have that one day might be useful’. Moirae did put this on the list of ‘things that the hero in my next smutty story will be able to do’. She had to have something to do to occupy her time during the lonely nights where she pined after men who she really couldn’t have. Why not make up a world where girls like her could find a handsome man and live happily ever after?

A few minutes passed before Moirae saw Anders head poke out from the window. His smirk was charming and foreboding all at once. “You own a journal? Also when am I going to see you wear that delectable dress in your closet? It’s a sin against the Maker that I’ve never seen you wear it. A sin you need to rectify.”

“You know me Anders, I can’t help the sinning it just happens. Sort of like breathing, if I stop doing it then Maker knows what will happen. Something awful and drastic like dying a horribly tragic death but this time festooned in ribbons.” She watched, amused now, trying to fight back the instinct to show a hint of weakness or panic. She was the eldest of two siblings, she understood that appearing calm and in control (even while sodding drunk and mostly naked) would deflect Anders unwanted attention towards her personal belongings namely her finest finery that was only brought out when mother demanded she make a fool of herself in public in front of nobles. “Then Varric will have to make up some much nobler death for me while bribing the witnesses of my actual death to secrecy. So no, you really don’t want to see me in that dress. I look like a _noble_ when I wear it.” The word noble was spat out of her mouth with a bitterness and loathing that nearly matched Anders’ usual tone when saying ‘templar’. The look of surprise that crossed his face when she said that almost made her pause.

The one thing Moirae did not do on a regular basis was talk about herself, at least seriously. Certainly she could joke, she did joke, she lied and she dodged questions with the ease of an apostate with a hint of charm and none of the twitchiness. She tried her best to not delve into subjects that had personal ties, she offered few life stories and when she did it was often alone with Varric, curled up on his bed, and snuggled into him. He retold some of the stories but never the personal ones, not like Bethany’s death or Father’s wasting. He asked for them still, and she obliged because she and Varric had an understanding. Just like at times Aveline and Moirae had an understanding that everyone else was excluded from.

“No you’d probably look like a wet dream or a princess, or oooo a wet dream about a princess. Certainly nothing so vile a Kirkwall nobility.” The gasp and flush that creeped up her too pale features had Anders laughing. She was going to set him on _fire_ when he got down there again because she was suddenly aware that was going to be for the good of everyone because they didn’t need another Isabela in the group. “Still sweetheart I am going to have to see you in it, because joking aside, I think you’d look beautiful. Also watch out.” With that he unceremoniously dropped her boots out the window, leaving her to scramble away before being hit with her own shoes. Her shoes were soon followed by a handsome apostate healer who was still in danger of being set on fire.

“Filched some coins too, decided it best if you are going to stay with me for a little while might as well have enough money to feed you and have some money to lose when we play Diamondback on Wednesday.” He patted a small pouch on his hip that clinked with coins. Her ire faded just a little as she realized he had gone to the trouble to think about her comfort, something no one except her servants and Varric really did on a regular basis. She let go of her need to set him on fire for the moment, bending over to pick up her boots, finding a pair of clean socks stuffed into one of them. She glanced at Anders quickly before pulling the socks out and on then her boots.

She stood up and moved infront of him, holding out her arms and giving herself over for his perusal. “How do I look?” His gaze sharpened for a moment as he looked her over before it softened and he smiled once more.

“Thoroughly trashed Moirae.”

She snorted and smiled eyes lighting up because at least he was honest about how she looked. He didn’t spout lies or platitudes and somehow that made her heart go ‘a-thump’ in her chest. To be honest most things about Anders, Fenris, and Sebastian (which she would never ever admit to even in confession) made her heart skip a beat. She had a talent, she found the most devastatingly handsome men with amazing talents, and they were all _insane and unavailable_. Well Fenris had been…She swallowed thickly before more thoughts of her onetime elven lover came up and managed to ruin the good mood Anders had put her in.

He came over to her and without asking he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. It gave her something solid to lean on, to support her as they started to descend into the city. “Come on, let’s get going so we can get some sleep before patients start pouring in.”

The time was passed in relative silence after that, comfortable silence. Not the awkward kind that made you wish to escape before the silence smothered you like an unwanted matron aunt’s ample bosom. It was the silence she used to share with Bethany, the silence that said lots of important things without words being needed. It was familiar and intimate, soothing.

They traveled through the streets and finally into the Undercity. The smell, the awful choking horrible scent of despair, refuse, sickness, and hopelessness, hit her in the stomach and for a terrible moment she thought she was going to vomit. The moment passed and her stomach settled. They walked through Darktown unmolested though not unnoticed. Still all the refugees ignored them as they made their way to Anders’ clinic.

Silence still reigned as Anders led her to the backmost room and guided her to the lone cot in the room. She didn’t need prompting to bend over and start untying her laces, stripping off her shoes and socks then Anders’ coat. Moirae did her best not to watch as Anders did much the same, stripping off his shoes and socks then his shirt. He took his shirt, folding it neatly and placing it on a crate in the corner, along with his coat. She studied the scars on his back, memorizing them and theorizing silently what had caused them. When he turned she made sure that her gaze was appropriately on his face, not his chest with its leanly defined muscles and smattering of chest hair. He smiled at her and she smiled back in return because out of everything she was grateful he understood her need to be with someone.

“Go on lie down and scoot over towards the wall so we can get on with the immoral cuddling.” He broke the silence with a tone that was gentler and less teasing than the words themselves implied. She obeyed his order and laid down, scooting so her backside touched the wall but she still faced him. He moved onto the cot once she did so and before he could fully settle in she moved back towards him, her head nestling underneath his chin, legs tangling in his and her arms doing their best to wrap around him. He chuckled and smoothed a hand over her hair. “You weren’t kidding about the cuddling.”

“I…when I was in Fereldan I shared a bed with Bethy and Carver.” Her voice was muffled as she nestled further into him. “I was usually in the middle holding Bethy while Carver cuddled me and we did our best to keep warm. There were fewer nightmares of Templars coming to take us when we did that. I’m a little lost now because I wake up expecting someone to be there but it’s just me in a big empty room and for a moment I always think I’m in the Circle. Since even when Carver left to be in the King’s army Bethy and I still shared a bed and even in Gamlen’s hovel Carver was my bedmate.” His arms came around her then, tightening around her as she quietly told a secret that Carver would skewer her for telling.

“No templar will ever get you Moirae.” Anders murmured and she thought, perhaps, she heard an echo of Justice in his voice. “You won’t wake up alone, I’ll be here.” The promise in his voice and the warmth of his body had her muscles relaxing and her eyes closing. Then before she knew it she was asleep, lulled there by promises of comfort and security and a steady beating heart.


	2. I Am Queen of the Crazies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Fenris, Varric, threats, jealousy, and humor.

“Broody.”

Varric’s voice was mild and Moirae could see him in her mind’s eye, settling into his seat like the lord he was. She could even imagine his eyes, staring at Fenris with that inscrutable Varric gaze that seemed to put everyone on edge. She’d only come to pop in and tell Varric where she was, so he could tell Aveline, and so that well they wouldn’t raze Kirkwall to the ground trying to find her. She hovered by the door, hitching Anders’ pants up a little more and trying not to look like she was eavesdropping.

“Do you know what stands between you and death? I will give you a guess, and the answer is not Rivaini’s thighs and wiley ways.” The humor in his voice was deadly. He was a dwarf and she’d never found a people so efficiently ruthless as she had the dwarves.

“No, enlighten me dwarf.” The dryness of Fenris’ voice, the growl she could hear sped her pulse and made her shiver. Maker damn it all, why did she have to be friends with men who had voices that were so goddamn sexy. Listening to any of them was an ear orgasm, and there was no way that she could ever replicate the sheer sensuality with written words.

“It’s Hawke. Hawke stands between you and a very nasty, drawn out death. I’m not talking some quick stab and run, I’m talking magic, knives, and imagination being combined to give you something that not even a Darkspawn would think of doing. That would be before we tell Junior of what happened, then your corpse would be brought back and defiled in even more brutal and inventive ways because for as much as he hates to show it Junior loves Hawke.” Moirae had to hand it to Varric, his tone stayed pleasant throughout the entire speech and it made the little hairs on her forearms rise. Her friends were defiantly not sane, not a single one, and Maker was she glad they all seemed to like her.

“I don’t understand why you’re threatening me.” The gruffness of Fenris’ voice as well as the hint of indignant confusion was more telling than the words. He really didn’t know why Varric was threatening him. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so s he just held her breath and listened.

“Not threatening Broody, promising you on Bianca’s virtue.” There was a pause for the seriousness of that statement to sink in before Varric started again. “If you seek out Rivaini again, do it discreetly and do it to where Hawke won’t see it. I care about you, I care about Rivaini, but I love Hawke. We’re family, and family doesn’t like seeing family cry. If I see a glisten of a tear in her eyes that isn’t put there by humor or happiness I will hunt you down. Aveline will hunt you down. Blondie will hunt you down. Choir boy will hunt you down. Junior will hunt you down. Bodhan will hunt you down. Orana will hunt you down. Leandra will hunt you down. Daisy will likely hunt you down. The list is long and involves most of Kirkwall and the surrounding Free Marches.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” He almost sounded cowed to Moirae’s ears. It was lie though because Fenris wasn’t cowed by anything, even heartwarming speeches that made her want to run in and smother Varric with love. No one had bothered to ever give any of her love interests a ‘you hurt her and I don’t mind going back to jail’ speech since her father died. Most assumed she could take care of herself, considering she could set people on fire. It was nice though to know that she had someone at her back.

She retreated for a minute, quietly walking back down the stairs before steeling herself. She breathed in deeply, centering herself and selecting the mask that would be most appropriate for this situation. She plastered a happy smile on her face and turned on her heel, running up the stairs making as much noise as possible.

“Varric!” She called his name as loudly as possible as she swung the door open and bounded inside. She went to him, bending over and wrapping her arms around him. “I was- oh you have company.” She trailed off, looking at Fenris, her gut clenching as she fought back a blush. He stared at her, his eyes narrowing as he took in her current set of attire, all of which (besides her boots) really belonged to Anders. It was all too large on her and she’d helped herself to a few of his spare buckles and straps to make sure her pants didn’t fall down or something else equally silly. “Hi Fenris.” Her smile was genuine as she tilted her head to rest her cheek on Varric’s hair. Doing her damndest to pretend she hadn’t just heard Varric threaten Fenris with hellfire and brimstone.

She moved back and grinned down at Varric. “I wanted to tell you I’m going to be helping Anders for a few days.” She knew he knew that she meant ‘I’m hiding in Anders clinic for a few days and paying rent with helping him out so please keep Mother from trying to hunt me down’. They had their own secret language. One usually reserved for best friends and family, which to be honest Varric counted as both in her mind. Which was why she had no compunction for throwing off some of her overwhelming responsibility and dumping it in his lap. “So tell Aveline for me.”

“But Hawke you know that woman scares the piss out of me.” Varric adopted an amused but horrified expression his hand going over his heart. “But for you I’ll suffer it.” She smiled in response to his theatrics, planting an affectionate kiss in his forehead. “Find me if you need me and I’ll see you for Diamondback.” Then she was off him and she turned to Fenris, her fingers wiggling in a gesture half used for mock spell casting and half wave. “Bye Fenris!” Then she bounded out of the room as quickly as she came in, trying her best not to look like she was running away from him.

Moirae had it hand it to herself, she managed to get all the way to the outside of the Hanged Man before gauntleted hands clasped around her wrist and jerked her back into an armored chest.

“Hawke.” The growl told her who it was and she had to assume Fenris had run out after her. His breath was on her ear and she felt the dizzying rush of want for him she’d always seemed to feel ever since she’d laid eyes on him. Hawke for all her horrible jokes, deflecting words, and ability to find trouble had a surprising amount of social grace and tact in her. Which is why Fenris was her friend, despite her status as a mage, despite her usually siding with the mages on matters that would have him trying to cleave her in two with his broadsword. She could navigate the prickly personality he had with ease.

“Fenris.” She could also make everything irrevocably awkward. Nothing was ever easy with exs, especially exs she didn’t want to be exs and he felt murderous all at once. Maker, this is why she needed mother to arrange a marriage for her. Or Varric, probably Varric, because if Moirae had her own choices left to her she’d pick the angry alcoholic elf who squatted in a mansion, the abomination who lived in the sewer, or the chaste chantry brother who might or might not be a prince. Varric would at least pick someone who could handle her eccentricities whereas Mother would sign her over to the first noble who looked kind and interested.

“You’re wearing the abomination’s clothes.” If Moirae didn’t know better, she thought it was jealousy in Fenris’ voice. A possessive anger and a sense of betrayal that made him want to go on an Anders killing spree in Darktown. She also knew she had a habit of making things up just to make her life more interesting and about her. Fenris didn’t care one whit really, he was just being a concerned friend.

“Yes I am. He was kind enough to let me borrow his since ‘traipising about the clinic in a man’s shirt and boots is not conductive to the health and wellbeing of any red blooded male and female in the general vicinity. They might find themselves on fire for just looking and this is a clinic not a slaughter house, so put on the Maker damned pants.’ I had been wearing Carver’s shirt til someone coughed something up that sort of looked like Blight onto me. I like Anders’ shirt better, it’s comfy..er than Carver’s old shirt.”

She was rambling she knew she was rambling worse than poor Merrill. Sometimes she wondered if Merrill had been dropped on her head as a child, or was just missing some integral part of her that most mages (outside of Kirkwall) seemed to have which said ‘just say no to demons’.

“Why were you only in a shirt and boots?” His voice was dangerous, threatening, and oh so damn sexy she fought a whimper. Biting her lip nervously she took in a breath to steady herself. She calmed down her hormones, she calmed down the desire and the fury. She bottled it up and threw it in a closet where it would stew and ferment til it was a lethal cocktail that she could throw at her enemies. Nothing killed enemies quicker than being sexually frustrated, a dangerous emotion for a mage’s enemies.

“That’s how I arrived there last night. Anders found me drunk and took me back with him when I told him I didn’t want to go home.” She wasn’t going to lie to Fenris, but she was going to skirt around some of the details. Like how sodding drunk she’d been, where Anders had found her, and the fact that Anders probably wanted to kill him on sight now.

There was a few moments of silence and Maker did it feel awkward like a three legged turtle. Her hand held up encased in his and pressed against him, armor digging into places uncomfortably but she didn’t dare move because Fenris was this close to her. He was close the broody bastard elf that he was and she could smell him, lyrium, soap, and that undertone of _Fenris_ that made her quiver. Then as suddenly as she had been grabbed she was let go.

“I’ll accompany you then.” As she turned around to give him a slanted look, wondering what was going on in the dark mired mind of his he pointedly looked at her back. “You do not have your staff. It would be unwise to let you go anywhere alone.” She knew he cared for her, in his own emotionally stunted way. It was there in the little things he did, he might not be able to say anything about it, but he did care. She cared for him too, she loved him. This broken bitter man who didn’t love her back. It hurt her so much, he’d hurt her so much.

She had to be the better man. What was one more problem that she had to ignore like someone’s crooked eye? Always aware but pretending to not be aware of it all the same. He still depended on her, to get him jobs for coin so he could keep up his alcoholism, for food, and for those reading lessons she swore she’d give him. He was going to be a free man, in every sense of the word. One day when she had Denarius’ head on a spike and presented it to him like a macabre valentine he’d know she loved him prickly bits and all.

Oh yes grand plan that one, go and kill a magister and live happily ever after.

“Alright, but I am staying there so you don’t have to worry about escorting me back up to Hightown.” He’d done that so many times, especially at the Hanged Man. He left when she did, trailing somewhere between beside and behind her, watching every shadow for an enemy. They talked on their walks, debated and needled each other making sure their views on everything was well thought out. She also easily danced around subjects or topics or opinions that would make him angry, still they learned about each other on those walks to Hightown over the years.

She could feel his eyes on the back of her head, boring holes into her skull and brain. She checked the urge to rub the back of her head, and she curbed her tongue. It was quiet all the way back to Darktown, Fenris contemplating whatever it was he was contemplating and her doing her best to ignore how uncomfortable she was. Especially when she stopped them, getting out enough money to buy lunch for three people at a vendor. She glanced out of the corner of her eye then to just look at Fenris. Everything about his face was carefully controlled, except his eyes. His eyes were heated, furious, pained, and several other emotions Moirae couldn’t give name. She glanced back at the vendor, taking her change and food with a smile before starting on her way again.

It was his own damn fault if he was hurting, she tried to convince herself. Still there was a pinprick in her heart and a painful throbbing in her wrists and throat, because she knew it really was her fault he hurt. She’d done something to hurt him and it was her fault again, and she needed to get back to the clinic because Anders would know how to fix this. He had fixed her last night, or at least he’d eased the pain in her heart enough to make life bearable and a semblance of happy.

Some days she just wanted to curl up in bed and just stay there. Days where the sunlight was foreboding, and she couldn’t breathe. There were days where she fought with every inch of her will power to get up and out of the damn bed. She was responsible, she was respectable, and she had shit to do. Painful gruesome shit to do, more responsibility placed on her shoulders than most other girls her age. Days where she wanted to tell her friends ‘fix your own damn problems or perhaps help me fix some of mine’ and she realized they did in their own weird ways so she bit her tongue because her friends were all broken shattered crazies and they needed patience.

She missed Carver in these moments, because he was an unmitigated ass but he was the ass that kicked her ass into gear. He bitched about her spotlight, partially from the jealousy and partially because he loved her. Carver and Bethany had known how to wheedle their sister out of bed, putting on her big girl apostate boots and making sure they could all survive the loss of Malcolm Hawke. Bethany was the gentle hand to pull her forward and Carver the one kicking her behind. No one could replace them in her life and she had two empty spots at her side where her younger siblings should be.

Still she made it to Darktown in once piece, with a broody (smoldering) elf in tow. Walking to the clinic’s doors she turned and gave Fenris another smile. It was smile number 16, cheerful but dismissive, with hints of desperate denial of pain and want. She had several different fake smiles and real smiles, all different for the emotions she needed to convey in the particular moment. Still Fenris got number sixteen. She mused that he should be glad he didn’t get smile number 82, which was usually given to people before they die or even sassy face number 3 which resembled bitchface number 10. She was sounding ridiculous even in her own head.

“Thank you for bringing me back here Fenris. I’ll see you for Diamondback.” Then she slipped through the doors with a wave of her hand not daring to look back again at Fenris. If she did she’d do something stupid or silly like invite him inside or try and talk and she needed to make this as clean a break as she could without ruining their friendship.

“Anders!” Her smile melted and morphed into something resembling sincere happiness when she saw him sitting in a chair, looking haggard and worn. “I brought us a treeaaat.” Her voice held a sing song quality to it as she walked over to him. She passed the sick and the wounded, knowing that those who were in the more dire of needs had been taken care of.

“Moirae you’re back an- is that food?” His eyes trailed from her face to the basket in her hand. Maker she wished she was the food right now; she wanted a man to look at her that hungrily.

“Nope it’s Knight Commander Meredith’s head on a platter, just had to put it in the basket to disguise it.” Her voice was wry and amused as she put the basket on a crate and hauled it in front of Anders. She perched on one side of the crate and unveiled the bread, cheese, and meat she had bought. She knew now, through carefully watching Anders and Carvers letters about the hunger a grey warden had. A hunger that could make Carver eat two or three times the amount he used to, and Anders…he lived in such squalid conditions that she had to subtly fatten him up. Do something for the hunger that plagued him that he fought against. He seemed to fight against everything in life, everything in life that was chosen for him and not by him. “I just transfigured it into looking like lunch. That part is yours and if I see leftovers I’ll shoot lightening at you.”

He opened his mouth to argue and shut it once he saw the look in her eyes. Some of his cheer melted away but he held back his questions, just nodded, a smile still curing his mouth. They really were two peas in a pod. Even when things were obviously wrong they tried to keep a smile on their face. They ate in relative silence, Moirae putting her basket away before going off to work on poultices and folding bandages.

Anders never asked her to heal, and she never offered.

It wasn’t to say she wasn’t surprised by that. She usually spent most of the time setting enemies on fire, electrocuting them, freezing them, or just beating them over the head with her staff. She almost always took Anders with her so she hadn’t been needed to throw a healing spell anyone’s way in a long time. Moirae could remember what her first spell had been, the instinct she had that she stomped down with a viciousness born of being an apostate. She remembered the blood on Carver’s knee, how he had been wailing after falling down and she’d just gone over to him hands glowing as she unconsciously knit flesh back together. She’d smiled at him then, all bright all cheerful and filled with love for the moody toddler that had forced itself into her life and had irrevocably become hers.

Being a healer, wanting to save people’s lives, would get her killed and captured. She’d had to grow up keeping people at arm’s length, and wasn’t it funny that she was the natural healer while Bethany the sweeter of the two just couldn’t seem to get it right. The Maker really did have a sense of humor.

There was a point where she looked at him, sighed aggravatedly and stopped her work. Placing the knife neatly on the chopping board she then marched over to Anders.

“Go work on the poultices.” Her voice held all the authority that Anders and their motley group of friends had given her. He raised a tired eyebrow at her, opening his mouth to sass, which she countered with a look that had him snapping his mouth shut. If there was one thing she had learned from her mother, it was to be intimidating and womanly all at the same time. Aveline had never learned the womanly part of being intimidating, but frankly it suited her in her new job scaring the piss out of everyone else or…she could call it being Guard Captain. Moirae was never going to say it out loud but Aveline had never scared her. The woman had too strong of a moral code to do that.

“I know how to heal, no one’s going to explode, and if I don’t know what to do I’ll ask. Recover your mana before I forcibly make you take a break.” Her fingers sparked as she wiggled them in front of Anders’ face threateningly.

He sighed. “Fine but I’ll blame you if something goes wrong.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Her voice was dry and bitter, trying to sound amused but it had hit too close to home. Still she turned, pasting a smile on her face and called on the spirit she had claimed as her friend to help her heal the downtrodden of Kirkwall. Benevolence answered her gentle summons and together they worked in tandem, taking away rashes and illnesses, mending broken bones and cuts. She didn’t know how long she worked like that, focusing on the gentle rush of healing magic, cool and soothing.

Then she felt hands on her shoulders, pulling her away from her current patient and snapping her back into reality. A smile of thanks was given to her before the child scampered off, leaving her pressed against Anders’ chest.

“You’re a Spirit Healer.” Her eyes closed as she steeled herself against the accusatory tone. “You just…” For a moment he couldn’t seem to articulate what he wanted to say, arms wrapping around her now and holding her tightly. “You’ve got more hidden depths to you than the Deep Roads and everything I find out about you is a pleasant non Darkspawny evil tainted surprise. That’s it, I’m going to find out every little detail about everything. Nothing is going to be safe or sacred, not even the color of your small clothes, which today I think is black.”

“Anders you’ve just made yourself sound about as creepy as a templar. Also, most anyone will be a mite offended that you likened them to the Deep Roads. Especially if they’ve been there, like I have.” She informed him with all the dignity and put on airs she could muster, sounding like a droll noblewoman informing some lesser intelligent lowlife about the weather. “Just so, you know, for future reference if you want to get laid by someone other than a prostitute or genlock...or a genlock prostitute”

“Oh Maker my poor brain, I’ll never be able to have sex again.” He moaned pitifully into her hair and she smirked. Fighting back the laughter she grinned even more, clearly Anders had never had siblings. “You evil evil woman.”

“Then my job here is done, you’re welcome by the way Justice.” She was amused and she could feel him smiling into her hair. This easy companionship, this banter was something she needed. She could feel pretty for awhile, and no one but her seemed to think Anders was safe. He’d made it abundantly clear that he was never ever going to ‘tap that’, ‘steer her ship’, ‘tap the midnight steel’ or whatever euphemism sex went by these days. He flirted for the fun of it, and she could flirt right on back. No matter that she had always been a little in love with him.

Not just because he reminded her of her father. Maker save her that was a creepy creepy thought.

No, it had more to do he had the qualities that she had always admired about her father, and that was it. He was resolute, he was funny, and he had this adorably annoying habit of being selfless at the most awkward and detrimental of times. Anders had qualities her father didn’t have, like being a sort of abomination, having a weird feather fetish, and being tall blond and Anders like. The people, not the man, but…oh she was confusing herself in her head.

Still she wondered if she could train Anders like she had her father. Moirae had had a special hand signal that she always used to make her Father stop what he was doing and look around and examine the situation and the life choices he had just currently made. It had involved laying one hand over the other, palms down with her thumbs sticking out and wriggling. ‘Awkward Turtle father, Awkward Turtle’ she always reminded him. Actually Isabela needed it more than any of her other companions, but she had to start small and she had to start somewhere and Anders was the perfect candidate.

“While you were doing your Spirit Healery things a runner from Varric came. We’re to meet at the Hanged Man to ‘relax and have a good time’. Apparently after you left Isabela found something worth celebrating. So the question is, do we want to eat the mystery stew at the Hanged Man or do we want to grab sustenance on the way there…and you’re looking at me like I’ve gone crazy. I don’t appreciate that, I think you’ve just offended my delicate sensibilities.”

In her defense Moirae hadn’t known she was looking at him like he was utterly insane, which he was if he was offering Corff’s stew as a viable dinner option when there were nice tasty rats they could roast and eat with more enthusiasm. Anders’ final comment channeled her inner Carver and she couldn’t stop herself as the words flowed out of her mouth.

“Well you are a delicate mage flower, forgive me I forgot. The usual telling sign of wearing a dress in public escaped me I simply assumed you were a transvestite and they’re made of sturdier stuff than _Circle_ mages apparently.”

The look he gave her was priceless, his mouth had fallen open and he looked caught between amused and offended at being called a transvestite to his face. The confusion on his face, warring between the two emotions had her laughing like the lunatic she was. It was similar to the expression Sebastian had when he finally realized that he had Andraste on his _crotch_ and that her face was a codpiece and that somehow it might be sacrilegious.

“T-They’re robes not dresses! Maker you of all people should know thi-” He spluttered. “Wait no, I’m not even wearing robes! Quit trying to confuse me you evil woman.”

She adopted a look of mock offense. “You mean you’re _naked_?” Moirae paused and gave him a once over, lips quirking deviously as she leered at him in a way she’d seen Isabela do multiple times. Anders shifted under her gaze looking oddly embarrassed despite the fact he was fully clothed by Fereldan standards. She could only hold the face for so long before she giggled, trying to smother it with a hand to her mouth. Anders embarrassment seemed to fly away as he smiled as well.

They fell into an easy silence again as they finished up with the last few stragglers of patients, closing up the clinic, and walking towards Lowtown. They walked side by side, Moirae looping her arm in Anders and leaning her head against his bicep. He didn’t glance at her or try to push her away. If there was one thing she knew about Anders now, it was that he needed touch as much as she did, that feeling a physical presence beside you grounded you in the here and now. Bringing a sense of calm and contentment that was hard for a mage to find on their own.

Entering the Hanged Man they did their easy routine, Anders let her go and went to get drinks and Moirae finished up the last of a piece of bread that they’d bought on the way. She sat down at the table that already contained Varric, Isabela, and Merrill. Anders came back placed her cup in front of her and somehow it all went to the Void in a handbasket.

Everyone was here now, all her friends, all at varying levels of inebriation. Anders and Sebastian being the closest to sober whereas Moirae was, as Anders lovingly dubbed it ‘Oghren Drunk’. Apparently Oghren drunk was the level where she began to do crazy things. Not her normal band of crazy, no it was a new level of crazy that her friends had probably all sensed in her which is why they had banded together and had made her their queen. At least she wasn’t starkers and cawing like a crow.

She had at that point stared at Varric for a good five minutes and with all the miserable seriousness she could muster began stroking his beardless chin and said as mournfully as possible ‘I wish I could quit you’. Which promptly had Isabela spewing her drink across the table and giggling hysterically because Moirae had just tried to reenact one of the more dramatic scenes in one of Isabela’s smutty stories.

She had leaned over to Anders and told him, while looking at Fenris, that ‘No, Fenris isn’t compensating for something with his greatsword he’s more warning you with it. In fact thinking about it, it’s more like his cock is proportional to the size of his greatsword and-‘ which she’d then been shut up with a hand over her mouth and a vaguely horrified expression given to her by Fenris while Isabela once again began to cackle madly and agreeing with her whole heartedly.

Then the final crowning achievement came when Isabela started pestering Sebastian about ‘hidden talents’ and Moirae had cheerfully told her ‘I can sing’ which had had Isabela’s attention on her faster than if Moirae had just taken off her top.

“You can sweetness?”

Moirae didn’t know what was wrong or even if something was wrong when she smiled happily. “Yup, used to sing all the time back in Lothering. There were days, weeks, Bethy and I were locked in the house and we couldn’t use magic to entertain ourselves. I found I could sing and make up songs off the top of my head, and Father said it was a special talent. Always made me feel close to Andraste, Sister Leiliana said that I had a very pretty voice when she caught me one day. I stopped singing when Father died, but I started again.”

Isabela smiled now, a plan in her eyes and Moirae didn’t even care what Isabela was planning. Taking another long sip of her drink, trying to drown out emotions she had no right to be feeling towards Fenris, towards Isabela.

“Sweetness why don’t you sing for us now? Something sexy, think you can do that?”

Moirae laughed and nodded. “I made up a song long ago, used to bother boys in the local tavern with it. Hmmm” She paused thoughtfully, tilting her head as she regarded her companions. Finally she pointed her finger at Sebastian. “You! You have Andraste on your crotch so therefore I won’t feel bad singing to _you_.”

“Hawke-“

“Shhh Varric, she’ll be fine.” Isabela shushed the dwarf with a wave of her hand. Moirae stood up, amused by Sebastian’s embarrassed expression. Reaching up behind her she took the pins out of her hair, letting it tumble down her shoulders and back. Shaking her head and running her fingers through her hair, she barely noticed the soft gasps from her companions and she certainly didn’t see the sharpened gazes now focused entirely on her. She felt good, and she felt far far too drunk but it didn’t matter.

She hummed a few low bars, familiarizing herself with the chords and notes again as she plucked the words from her memory. Sitting down on the table in front of Sebastian she smirked.

“My friends feel it's their appointed duty   
They keep trying to tell me all you want to do is use me   
But my answer yeah to all that use me stuff   
Is I wanna spread the news that if it feels this good getting used   
Oh you just keep on using me until you use me up”

Her voice was a low as she sang, reaching over to caress Sebastian’s face, leaning forward til she was by his ear her eyes at half mast and with a breathy voice full of need she murmured the last line with a flourish.

“Until you use me up.”

She moved back, unconscious of the swallows of most of her companions as they found their throat dry. Their eyes following her every move as she tilted her head and patted the spot right in front of Varric.

“My brother sit me right down and he talked to me   
He told me that I ought not to let you just walk on me   
And I'm sure he meant well yeah but when our talk was through   
I said brother if you only knew you'd wish that you were in my shoes   
You just keep on using me until you use me up  
Until you use me up”

Her memories grew fuzzy for a moment, time seemed to blur as she remembered when she first preformed the song. She’d been frustrated and angry when she’d found the farmhand she’d slept with wanted nothing more to do with her. That he’d taken her because he could, because she was naïve and the more age appropriate Hawke to sleep with. She’d made the song to tease him, to get revenge on the fact he wanted only her body, to pretend that she wanted nothing more than a roll in the hay.

She slid off the table now, onto Sebastian’s lap as she straddled him. Andraste’s face uncomfortably poking her crotch now, and she wondered somewhere in the back of her head if she was going to get smited for this somehow.

“Oh sometimes yeah it's true you really do abuse me   
You get in a crowd of high class people and then you act real rude to me   
But oh baby baby baby baby when you love me I can't get enough   
I and I wanna spread the news that if it feels this good getting used   
Oh you just keep on using me until you use me up   
Until you use me up”

Her fingers ran through his hair, noting how wonderfully soft it was. Next smutty story not only would have a man who could climb walls, but would have this wonderfully sinfully soft hair for the heroine’s fingers to run through. She felt dizzy now, like the world was moving too fast for her and slowly losing its shape. Still she could finish this, she would finish this.

“Talking about you using me but it all depends on what you do   
It ain't too bad the way you're using me   
Cause I sure am using you to do the things you do   
Ah ha to do the things you do”

Moirae finished her song, rocking back and smiling at Sebastian brightly. His expression was interesting, bemused, intense, horrified, and a little afraid. She almost wondered what he was afraid of when she realized there was a deep rumbling growl behind her. It moved through her body like an aphrodisiac and she’d closed her eyes to fight against the sensation, and it was then she noticed the sudden fluctuating temperature of the air.

“Oh sweetness I’m going to be thinking of that the next time I’m in my bunk.” Isabela’s voice filtered through to her and she smiled, chuckling. “Glad to know even I can give you fodder for your fantasies Isabela.”

“Yo-“ Isabela was cut off by a strangled noise.

“Maker’s breath Hawke you’re burning up.” Sebastian’s concerned brogue and a hand to her flushed face made the entire room stand still. She could feel everyone coiling, readying to spring into action. Moirae had to defuse the situation, calling upon her diplomatic skills she tried to smile at him.

“’m fine just a little drunk ‘Bastian.” She tried to soothe his ruffled feathers, but he gripped her face gently with both hands. “Look at me Hawke.” His voice was firm, an order she couldn’t ignore. Not when he said it in such an authoritative tone that made her shiver. Opening her eyes, she wondered why it had taken til now to do so.

“Your eyes…” Sebastian cut himself off, her dilated eyes and flushed skin worrying him. “Anders look at her, something’s wrong.” Moirae could hear Anders moving to her quickly, his hands replacing Sebastian’s and making her turn to look at him.

“Oh nothing’s wrong with her, she’s just relaxed I gave her a little something to calm her down. She was looking skittish when she got here, look she’s relaxed nicely.” Isabela tried to soothe the two men, her hands up in the air placatingly.

“How much Isabela?” Anders’ voice was sharp as he ran his thumbs over her cheeks, making her smile at him hazily.

“Not much, just enough to get her relaxed when she drank her usual amount of alcohol.”

“She didn’t drink her ‘usual amount’.” Anders ground out, looking furious. “She actually drank the entire pint and got two more after that, not her usual dumping it in the corner when no one’s looking and filling it up again.”

“Anders I don’t feel right.” Moirae finally managed at last because she realized she didn’t feel right. The world was blurry and the fun feeling from before was going away leaving a strong sense of panic because the world felt heavy around her and she couldn’t really think. She whimpered in her growing panic. “I can’t think, why can’t I think?” Her breath began to hitch and she felt tears pricking her eyes. “Anders?” Her voice was soft and pleading, asking him to make it better for her because she didn’t know how.

“Sweetheart you’re safe, it’s okay trust me.” Anders voice was soothing and she almost startled out of Sebastian’s lap when arms began to lift her. She felt weightless for a second and almost flailed because she didn’t know who had picked her up until the scent of soap, lyrium, and Fenris assailed her and she shivered curling up tighter.

“Hightown.” Anders said to Fenris and they began to move. She could hear Aveline starting to shout at Isabela and she buried he face in Fenris’ neck to hide from the noise. The panic came and receded like the waves of the ocean, threatening to consume and drown her one moment and the falling away the next. Leaving her exhausted and raw and wondering what in the Void was happening to her.

They went to her house, she knew because she could smell it. Moirae heard Dirthamen whine in concern; her mother and Bodhan murmuring in the background. It felt like a dream, except the world was black now and not sepia toned. She was laid on her bed, gently, like she was precious and fragile and she’d break if she hit the bed too hard.

“I can’t do too much for her, except keep watch over her.” She could hear Anders talking to her mother, or was it Oriana? A growl confirmed it was Dirthamen and a blessedly cool hand touched her face for a moment before retreating and she whined at its loss.

“Don’t worry sweetheart I’m just getting undressed, then going to get you undressed and then we can sleep.”

“You are not.” Oh, the growl had been Fenris then because that was his voice and she could feel his killing intent. She struggled to open her eyes to look at him. “You will not take advantage of her.”

“I’m not- For Maker’s sake elf.” Anders sounded exasperated, frustrated, and worried. “I’m not going to do something untoward. She’s drugged, she’s drunk, and she couldn’t give consent even if I wanted to do anything right now. I’m going to sleep next to her because she’s going to need it.”

“Why you?”

“Do you see anyone else in here that could share her bed and not have her humiliated or horrified in the morning? She-“ Anders paused, took in a deep breath as if trying to regain control over himself. “Do you have nightmares about slavers coming to get you? Killing Hawke or Isabela in their need to get to you?”

“I don-“ Fenris began but Anders cut him off. She could practically hear the hand he had held up to silence Fenris. “Hawke’s been an apostate all her life, she’s been running all her life, she’s been afraid all her life that she was going to get captured and her family killed. She has nightmares about Templars, and she told me…that waking up alone exacerbates her fear since she’s spent most her life sharing her bed with her siblings. Hawke needs to be as comfortable as possible, calm as possible, while the drugs wear off. You might not be able to care about the plight of mages in general, but you can muster up some care for her plight since it’s so damnably similar to your own.”

“I…see.” Fenris’ voice was quiet and for a long moment there was nothing but tense silence. Then the sound of buckles coming undone and Anders’ sound of indignation gave way to another pause. “She had two siblings, and while I am not a girl, I do have a body and breath. I would not see harm come to her unnecessarily.”

“Great, okay fine. Let’s put her more in the middle and Maker save you if you utter a word of what I said to anyone else because your former master will be the least of your concerns.”

Silence descended again and Moirae tried to rationalize what she’d heard, horrified at the thought she was hallucinating on top of everything else. Her soft whimper of panic, as she realized she was hallucinating because she couldn’t feel anyone beside her drew two different bodies to her bed. Her breath hitched and she couldn’t move, was afraid to try, as two pairs of arms wrapped around her and simultaneously tried to avoid touching the other.

“We’re here Moirae.” Anders whispered into her ear. “We’re here and you’re safe. You’ll feel better tomorrow I promise. Relax mein liebchen.” His soft encouragements had her relaxing, letting his voice and the blessed coolness of his and Fenris’ body, the twin sounds of breathing and existing lull her into sleep.


	3. A Story Worth Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is sickness, sexual frustration, and Hans Christian Anderson.

“How about we buy her a chastity belt? That will be punishment enough.”

Moirae chuckled then groaned, cracking an eye open at the disheveled and not quite so starved but still deliciously scruffy apostate who was lounging in a chair by her bed. Three days, he and Fenris had been constant presences beside her. Switching off, taking turns, until it was time for bed and they both stubbornly came and laid beside her. Never had she thought it possible that three people could cuddle and still manage to have two people not touch at all. She somehow felt the laws of time and space were being bent somehow, but she wasn’t sure how and she wasn’t going to question.

Especially since she embarrassed herself three days back waking to being held and she’d hugged Fenris to her tighter, muzzy with sleep and feeling awful and she’d kicked Anders awake. When she’d heard his sharp intake of breath that had signaled his waking she’d buried her face in Fenris’ neck and pitifully whined. ‘Carver ‘m too sick to do anything. Tell Mother to get help in the fields.’ To her eternal embarrassment she hadn’t connected that the two bodies in bed with her weren’t Carver and Bethany. ‘Also your cock’s poking my ass, get it away from me…’n when did you get magic?...Why did Bethy lose her breasts?’  
Then life went to the Void again because she realized that she was in bed with two men and for a moment she panicked. She couldn’t even hide her panic because she’d flailed, scrambling to get up only to fall back over with a pained whine because she hadn’t been kidding when she had told ‘Carver’ she was too sick to do anything. In fact she felt like she’d been beaten by an ogre. There had then been a fight between Fenris and Anders, and Anders had examined her declaring that not only was she suffering the after effects of ‘a hangover I haven’t seen on anyone who wasn’t a dwarf’ but she really was sick, having caught one of the diseases that ran rampant in the Undercity. Which Fenris then blamed Anders for her getting, and there was another fight, before her Mother came in and was appraised of the situation.

“You just want to do it so you’ll have to stop treating her for venereal diseases.” She saw his lips quirk up in a smile, a blessedly warm and entirely Anders. Seeing him smile almost made her forget how utterly shitty she felt. How her throat was hoarse and sore and it was hard for her to breathe, if not outright move. Moirae felt like shit, tired, weak and aching unpleasantly everywhere. Anders hadn’t even told her what illness she had gotten, just that it was a ‘nasty bugger and you’re going to be housebound for a little while’.

“I’d be thankful to have to stop treating everyone for venereal diseases.” His voice was dry and she chuckled at his tone. It was early in the day, before Anders had to go to the clinic, and he hadn’t fully dressed yet. Which mean he hadn’t tied his hair back yet.

It was so blessedly awkward having him have his hair down, all uneven and messy and so deliciously close that she could run her fingers through it if she had the energy to get up out of bed and go to him. The overwhelming need to pet him was like trying to ignore a drug habit she’d never noticed she had acquired til the itch was there and under her skin. The fact she now had the wonderful impression of what he’d felt like when he was hard nearly drove her insane because she couldn’t take care of it.

Moirae loved her friends, loved them so very much they were like family. Still she wanted to have time alone, time where she could take care of the horrifying needs that cropped up when she woke in the morning sandwiched between two of the most handsome and frustratingly unavailable men in the entire universe. She dealt with it all day, every day, for the last three days.

She wasn’t alone even in the bathroom, or never alone long enough to take the edge off. Chamber pot visits didn’t last as long as it was going to take to deal with her issue, she learned because when she’d tried that particular excuse she could feel Fenris or Anders hovering outside the damn door. She wasn’t alone when she was bathing either, Fenris’ presence unable to be ignored.

She remembered the argument he, Anders, and her mother had had about the first time she requested a bath (unknowing of the utter havoc she was unleashing by the request).

‘Lady Leandra, you can’t bathe her.’

‘She’s my daughter and she’s too sick to bathe herself without likely passing out and drowning! I’m not useless serrah!’

‘I didn’t mean to…Lady Leandra she’s very ill, and she’s very contagious. You’d have a harder time dealing with the illness than she will, and you’re much more likely to catch it if you spend time with her especially since it loves to run through families. Hawke would kill me if I let you get sick.’

‘What of Orana then? Perhaps she could bathe my daughter without incident?’

‘Lady Leandra-‘

‘I will do it’

‘What? Excuse messere but you are a man.’

‘Fenris that really isn’t a-‘

‘I’m not sick and I have spent most of the day beside or near her. I am not feeling unwell or even off. I will make sure she does not drown herself in the bath. It is not like I have not seen her naked already.’

There had been an awkward pause at that point then more furious arguments until a small (very literal) explosion happened and then Fenris had escorted her into the bath and had stayed there. Moirae had done her best not to read too much, or even anything at all in the gesture. He was simply being a good friend, and he didn’t know that he was flustering her and making her want to give him a blasted show. No she have behaved herself, though she felt like she was going to end up setting something on fire. Either by wayward magic or her furious humping of something inanimate.

“At least you’ve never had to treat me for venereal disease.” He made a strange sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh and she smiled in return of the sound. “So you can count that as a win.” Her voice was sly and teasing and she watched his face, amused by the play of emotions flickering across it.

“I do, it’s never fun having to look at a friend’s diseased crotch and wonder how it got to be that way.” A snort passed through her stuffy nose and she was thankful the Maker was kind enough not to let snot run out due to the gesture. It had created an uncomfortable pressure, but nothing she couldn’t live with.

“All the people I’ve slept with have been clean, always did my best to make sure of that. Didn’t want to have to try and fix something down there.” She nuzzled her head into the pillow not caring how oddly personal the conversation was getting between them. Well Anders had told her of Justice, what could really top that in the awkward conversations lists?

“People?” The curiosity in his voice made her groan internally.

Well apparently her honest phrasing could. She flushed and bit her lip, looking at Anders seriously. “This doesn’t go past the door, understand? Mother would have a fit.”

She watched him nod, with that odd look on his face again, and she took in a deep steadying breath.

“I’m not strictly…heterosexual. I’ve always thought you fell for someone in their entirety not just their body. It’s a nice additive, but it’s the mind and soul of a person you really want. That’s what I learned after my first sexual tryst anyway.” She paused and took in a breath. “I’ve slept with men and women, humans, elves, and even a dwarf once. Not to say I’ve got a long list, though the longest relationship I ever had was with a woman. She left me to marry a respectable merchant and get out of Lothering. It’s my luck, you know. No one ever stays in love with me, especially when I realize I love them. Guess I’m a cat, always wanting the people who don’t want me.”

Moirae watched as Anders moved, coming over to sit on the side of the bed, his hand reaching out and petting her head, running his fingers through her hair affectionately. Mein Kaetzchen, ich werde dich immer lieben. Du hast etwas Besseres verdient, und eines Tages wirst du die richtige Person fuer dich finden. Ich weiss, dass ich die Person nicht bin. Es tut mir weh zu wissen, dass ich nie der Mann fuer dich werde. Ich werde die Welt im Blut ertraenken, wenn jemand wieder meinem geliebten Kaetzchen weh tut.” She felt pleasantly confused by the words, his affectionate tone made her nuzzle into his hand anyway and he smiled at her. There was something about person and finding in there, unless she was wrong and she was betting on the fact that she was.

“I have no idea what you just said.” She admitted. Ruing the fact she couldn’t understand a word outside of the King’s Common tongue unless it was a name. Well she could understand curse words, but it was usually when Fenris or some other foreign speaking person was spitting them out and she gathered that whatever was being said wasn’t pleasant. Still hearing him murmur to her in Anders, the guttural yet somehow melodic words hypnotized her.

Lovely now she had a thing for guys who spoke foreign languages or had accents. Why couldn’t she find a nice normal, plain, dime a dozen man to fall for? Rather than an ex slave or a rebel mage or even a prince, how about a farmer or a merchant or something ordinary and easy to find. Well she had gone for such people back in Lothering, and even then none had stayed, none had loved her for her. She really did have a problem, a problem she was going to go to Varric to fix once she wasn’t nasty and sick and confined to her bed.

“Well maybe you just need to learn Anders then.” His voice was amused and affectionate. “I should get you some breakfast, then I’ll get ready and hand you over to Fenris who should have gathered enough of Varric’s books at this point to keep you entertained. Once I give you a clean bill of health you do understand your mother is going to fuss over you? That the only reason you’re not being smothered right now is because Fenris and I are apparently sufficiently authoritative enough to keep her out?”

“I thank you for that, she doesn’t need to get sick as well.” Anders stroked her hair once more and his eyes took on a devilish twinkle.

“Once you’re better I’ll ask for my payment, a pretty woman such as yourself won’t have trouble figuring out what would be appropriate.” She laughed at his words, and then her laughing turned to racking coughs that shook her entire body painfully. She thought she was going to throw up, her chest and abdomen seizing tightly as Anders rubbed soothing circles on her back as she gagged and coughed.

Quieting down after a handful of painful minutes, she gratefully spat out the mucus into the proffered kerchief too sick to even feel embarrassed by it at this point. She blindly reached for her tea, the ginger burning her throat but settling her stomach as the honey soothed the pains and made it more palatable. She could barely call the concoction tea, more like warm ginger water with honey to help ease the burning pain it would bring to her throat. It was a concoction her father had favored to give her and her siblings when they’d been ill. Anders had been surprised when Leandra had handed him a pot of it and told him that he was to make Moirae drink it, mainly because he had been sneaking downstairs to make it at the time.

Which Leandra had known about before it had even happened. Leandra had always been scarily aware of the goings on inside her household, and Moirae was certain that she’d never really gone unnoticed all the times she’d snuck out and in over the years. So Anders, who had no knowledge of the creaky third stair or even where Leandra’s room had been located had easily gotten caught. Which he’d then been given a long detailed list of ‘no sneaking around the house, you are a guest not a burglar. You’re welcome to use anything you like, even the kitchen, no need to ask since you are looking after my daughter…’ Anders had come back to her and muttered he’d rather face the Mother again than have to deal with Leandra’s subtle ire and motherly affection.

Moirae wished that Anders, and in fact all her friends could have met Malcolm. She had been her father’s daughter through and through, or perhaps she had inherited more of Leandra’s habits than either daughter or mother was fully comfortable with admitting. Certainly Moirae knew she had inherited Leandra’s ‘no nonsense’ looks that put people in their place and a femininity that despite being a near physical (smaller female) clone of her father that the man had never possessed. Not that Malcolm Hawke had been a giant bear of a man covered head to toe in virile masculinity, okay it was a partial lie because Malcolm Hawke had been masculine in that dashing rogue sort of way.

Actually if she thought about the weird pseudo connection between Anders and her father, Anders wasn’t half as smooth as Malcolm had been. Malcolm could’ve charmed Knight-Commander Meredith into his bed without trouble (if he hadn’t been, you know, totally in love with her mother). Anders was raunchier and sometimes awkward and tended to flounder where Malcolm wouldn’t have batted an eye. Thank the Maker Malcolm had never gotten to meet Isabela, her life would have been made a living hell and it would have likely only ended when Leandra murdered the pirate in single combat at dawn. Which she had nearly done a handful of times in the various places they’d lived over the years.

Moirae had never inherited her mother’s possessive anger. Then again she’d not had much to call her own to get possessive of, let alone get angry when someone tried to take it. Every lover she’d had walked away before they’d found someone else, all her friends were friends with eachother, she’d definitely been Malcolm’s ‘favorite’ while Bethany and Carver had shared Leandra’s doting. Dirthamen was hers. She had only a few sentimental objects, and no one was ever really going to try and take them from her.

She hadn’t realized how far she’d fallen into her own head til she felt a gentle hand touching her and bringing her back to the present.

“Sweetheart, you need to eat. Look it’s your favorite! Or well, Orana said you liked this a great deal and it’s…oatmeal with fruit? Yes, at least I think that’s what those colorful bits are in there.” He glanced between her face and the bowl quickly to make sure his assumption was correct. She smiled and sat up, her body protesting and her head swimming for a moment before she settled and Anders set the tray on her lap.

Eating was a chore, there was no way to disguise her struggle with the simple meal yet her pride was too great for her to ask for help. Anders at least understood her enough to know that he’d likely be set on fire for offering to help, and that since she was sick her normal control had melted away leaving two options. One, it would be small barely smoking on his clothes fire or two, it would be a raging inferno in which he would die a horribly crispy death. He wasn’t going to try and determine if his luck would hold when it came in regards to her not killing him with fire or whatever element was closest to her mind. He liked being alive and around her, or so Moirae supposed.

She surreptitiously watched him dress; the reverse strip tease was cruel. Watching his skin being covered up, the lithe muscles being hidden and hinted at by his damnably bulky clothes, the barriers between her and him however unconscious and nessecary made her throat burn with something other than her sickness. Who was she kidding, love was a sickness, a cancer in her body that she couldn’t get rid of.

Fenris, Anders, at least she didn’t have to choose between them. At least she didn’t have to worry about them going at each others’ throats because of her. Their level of hostility would remain constant..ish, it’d been upped since her disastrous one night affair with Fenris but it had leveled off she thought. Or well hoped desperately while she plugged her ears and closed her eyes and hummed very very loudly in her head.

She finished her oatmeal and Anders took the tray, refilling and warming her cup of ginger tea with practiced ease. He bent over and laid a kiss to her hair, an affectionate gesture that had her insides squirming and her cheeks heating up. She bet she looked awful, flushed and pallid all at once with that sickly slightly sweaty cast to her. Why he would even kiss her hair, despite their close friendship, was beyond her comprehension at that moment.

“Be good and don’t torment Fenris too much sweetheart.” His words were affectionate and mischievous, and she had a feeling he meant ‘Rest, but if you can manage make his life a living hell’. She had no intention of doing that, because the only way she could envision making Fenris’ life a living hell meant blood magic was going to be involved or worse yet Merrill. Not that Merrill was terrible, it was simply Moirae couldn’t deal with her cheerful friend right now when all she wanted to do was freeze the sun and curl back up under the covers.

She managed an “I promise.” Before he darted out, leaving Fenris to slink into the room after his departure. Moirae was going to tally the days Anders spent at her house before he realized the Darktown entrance in the wine cellar. Mother certainly hadn’t mentioned it yet and Moirae was going to deliberately play dumb about it. She felt it was a lovely payback for the fact the man sexually frustrated her like nothing else. He was getting off easy with the laborious trek through the winding streets of Kirkwall while she got to sit here and try very very hard not to think sexual thoughts.

Which was ridiculously hard to do right now considering Fenris wasn’t wearing his ‘I hate you all! I was a slave!’ armor. The white tunic top and dark brown leather pants that clung to his muscled legs were probably some deliberate yet very subtle form of torture Fenris learned in Tevinter. He held four tomes in his arms and set them on the table on his side of the bed. Moirae wasn’t entirely sure when she’d started thinking of that side of the bed as his, but it had been dubbed thus and would likely forever remain. He then gracefully moved the large wingedback chair that had once been in residence in the upper floor of the study beside her bed and plucked the first book up.

He stared at her for a long moment, green eyes boring into her soul and she fidgeted wondering what he wanted. She was uncomfortable, flushed, and sluggish from fever. Fenris kept staring til it seemed like he was trying to memorize her every feature, her ever detail in all its sickly glory. Then he finally looked away and slowly, ever so carefully lifted the cover from the leather bound book.

“ Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could fathom it: many chantry steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King and his subjects. We must not imagine that there is nothing at the bottom of the sea but bare yellow sand. No, indeed; the most singular flowers and plants grow there; the leaves and stems of which are so pliant, that the slightest agitation of the water causes them to stir as if they had life. Fishes, both large and small, glide between the branches, as birds fly among the trees here upon land. In the deepest spot of all, stands the castle of the Sea King. Its walls are built of coral, and the long, Tevinter windows are of the clearest amber. The roof is formed of shells, that open and close as the water flows over them. Their appearance is very beautiful, for in each lies a glittering pearl, which would be fit for the diadem of a queen.”

Moirae couldn’t tell if she was startled or relieved that the book actually wasn’t Varric’s. The words so familiar to her, she could almost imagine her father’s voice instead of Fenris careful growling tones. Fenris wasn’t a smooth reader; he paused for a second while his mind tried to put syllables into words which then formed a sentence. Yet the halting words, the pauses made her smile because he was reading. He’d had such difficulty at first, when Moirae had first started to teach him. She remembered the fights and the tantrums, the frustration on both their parts.

Still hearing the childhood fairytales her father had once read her was comforting. She imagined he’d probably plucked the book from her study bookshelf or her mother had handed it to him. The tales were a mix, some Orlesian, some Fereldan, some Tevinter, some Antivan, and some Anders but she’d learned to read on them. She’d learned to love the written word with them.

Not to say Varric couldn’t spin a tale that was wonderful and engaging. There were simply times one wanted comfort in the familiar, and these words were familiar and loved.

It was hard for her not to close her eyes and imagine that Fenris was reading, not to her, but to their children. Beautiful little half elven things that would lay eagerly awaiting for their Father (because she honestly couldn’t see him taking well to a less formal word) to tell them bedtime stories. They would have green eyes and black hair, and depending on whose genes were stronger they’d be pale or olive complexioned. Their house would be set near a village, far enough away for privacy but close enough for comfort. Fereldan, they’d live in Fereldan, where there were great and wonderful forests for their children to play in and wide open fields to run. There’d be no cause for him to pick up a blade, and her magic would be limited to setting logs on fire or soothing aches and pains. Their life would be simple and their greatest fears would be wild animals or bandits, not slavers or templars. Life would be hard but it would be theirs.

And it would never be.

“I did not know that the story would upset you so.” There was a gentle touch to her face by sword calloused hands and she opened her eyes to look at him. She hadn’t known she was crying til he wiped away a few salty tears from her face and she tried to smile at him.

“I’m sorry Fenris. I was just thinking about something.” He frowned deeply then and his eyes asked before his lips could open and ask the question she knew was coming.

“About my life, before here, before Kirkwall. My family is here, my friends are here, but it doesn’t mean I don’t miss what I lost.” Twas a lie and partial truth all at once. She didn’t need to let him know the true nature of her thoughts. He’d run faster than if she were the archdemon herself, or naked. Being naked made him run, well excepting when he watched her bathe but that was likely a trial for him to just sit there and not bolt out of the room. “I miss the open fields of the Bannorn, and the forests near the wilds. I miss going out in the field and working, or gathering flowers to make soaps and lotions to sell at the Lothering Market to get extra coin. I miss sitting at the table and hearing my father lecture on the nature of magic with Bethany by my side and Carver practicing his sword outside while Mother wove baskets in a corner. I miss curling up in bed and hearing my Father read the tales from that book to us at night. I miss the simplicity of life back then. I’d never abandon Mother though, and I’d never leave my friends here. My life is here in Kirkwall now for better or worse.”

“You…” He tried to find the words, she could see him searching for them or trying to translate them from Arcanum to Common. “Were you not afraid of the templars?” She could see the self reproach in his eyes as he uttered his question, knowing somehow that wasn’t what he wanted to ask and exactly what he wanted to know as well.

“Yes.” It was a simple answer but not the true answer to his question. “I had night terrors of being taken, of being made tranquil, of my family being slaughtered while I was helpless to stop. My father did his job a little too well, or perhaps very well since I’ve not been caught yet. It’s a fear that I’ve never shaken to this day, I fight my fear of the Gallows each time I go there on business. The thing is, I’ll never be free of my fear of Templars because I’ll never be able to stop being a mage. I’ll never be free of the fear or the paranoia, and I accept that as my price of remaining free. Just as you will likely never get over your issues with being recaptured.”

She reached over then, taking her ginger tea and sipping on the lukewarm contents. Moirae was going to have to ask Fenris soon to get her a fresh batch that was nicely warmed. It’d make her feel marginally better at least and allow him his much needed personal space. Well what she assumed was his need for personal space.

“Why have you never spoken of this?”

She placed her cup on the bedside table once more, on Anders’ side, and looked at Fenris calmly. “You’ve never asked.” Her voice was quiet and without reproach but he flinched as if she’d struck him. He’d never asked what her fears were, her dreams, her wants, her needs. She didn’t resent him for that. He’d never been taught what it was like to try and converse with others on a pleasant basis, to try and make friends. Let alone keep said friends. It didn’t frustrate her, or anger her he never really pried into her past or her thoughts. Well aside from the obvious ones on slavery or mages or political situations or jobs. Moirae in her own way was adept at keeping people at arm’s length, dancing around the subjects that were close to her that could tip someone off that something wasn’t right with her.

She’d always tried to bridge the gap when someone became a lover…yet Fenris had left her before she could even try.

So it was an impasse of sorts.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, regarding her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. A tickle started in her throat, that she tried to ignore, but ignoring that was like trying to ignore the burning frustration in her veins. It was nearly impossibly and she spluttered a little, trying to fight the fit she knew was coming. Fenris’ thoughtful gaze turned immediately into concern as she hunched over and began coughing again, wondering why her lungs wanted to so badly get out of her body.

Just like Anders there was a kerchief at the ready when she stopped, spitting out brown flecked mucous that Fenris tidily bundled up and threw into the fire. Anders had been clear on his instructions, and while Moirae knew Fenris was loathe to follow Anders’ orders the broody elf knew when he was outclassed and had to defer to the expert. Not that Fenris would ever tell Anders he was an expert in anything other than being an abomination.

Actually Moirae would love to be there the day Fenris did actually say that to Anders. It was wrong but sometimes, occasionally, their fights amused her as they irritated her. She wished they’d get along, but if they were going to be at each other’s throats at least they were humorous about it. Like Isabela and Aveline, sometimes Moirae had the small sadistic urges to bring the two along just to hear Isabela needle Aveline. Or Merrill and one of the various companions that hated her for her blood magic. Those conversations were usually entertaining as they were frightening.

“When you get well you should cease helping the abomination in his clinic.” Fenris finally offered gruffly as he came over and rubbed her back. “It is obviously unhealthy for you.” She cracked a smile under his concern, thankful that she was sick enough not to have to try and move around the prickly defenses her crotchety elf had erected.

“So is running into the middle of a group of slavers with nothing but a prayer and a pointy stick to defend myself. Yet you don’t stop me from doing that.”

“I cannot cut down disease like I can your enemies. You put yourself at an unnecessary risk, a risk neither I nor any of our companions can conquer and vanquish.” It was horrible of her to suddenly conjure up the image of him wielding his broadsword against the sick and destitute that practically inhabited Anders’ clinic. She was really too ill to be having any sort of lengthy discussion of any sort of import.

“That’s…very sweet.” She meant it, she couldn’t lie to his face about it. Not when he looked so earnest and angry about his own ‘impotence’ in the face of her sickness. She knew the feeling well, watching her father slowly waste away in front of her eyes. At least Fenris was guaranteed she’d get better. Anders had sworn it, and she was fairly certain if he was wrong then he’d be joining her in the Beyond very quickly. Sent there by a myriad of people, but likely Fenris would get to him first. “No one’s ever really cared about my health like that before.”

“One would think the abomination would be automatically added to the list since he is supposedly a healer.”

“Fenris.” She rolled her eyes now, exasperated at his need to dig and needle Anders even when the man wasn’t there to needle. She wanted to tell Fenris that it wasn’t Anders fault she was sick, that he had far too much on his mind to worry about her health. Moirae was on no one’s number one spot in care about list, except Dirthamen’s and he hardly counted because he was a mabari.

He harumped and looked away. Moving back to his chair, Maker now he’d claimed another thing in her house, he picked up the tome. “Do you wish for me to continue reading from this?” His words were cautious, wondering what sort of reaction it might provoke from her.

She moved further under the covers, laying back down on the bed and turning so she could face him. “Yes, if I fall asleep don’t get offended. I’m tired but I want to hear more, especially since you were doing so well.” She heaped as much praise on him as she could before he could snap at her for being ridiculous. Positive reinforcement was her rule of thumb when it came to teaching anyone anything, except Carver and he deserved every smack he ever got from her. He sat back, crossing his legs and situating himself to be comfortable he turned to a new story.

“Far away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter, dwelt a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named Eliza. The eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school with a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. They wrote with diamond pencils on gold slates, and learnt their lessons so quickly and read so easily that every one might know they were princes. Their sister Eliza sat on a little stool of plate-glass, and had a book full of pictures, which had cost as much as half a kingdom. Oh, these children were indeed happy, but it was not to remain so always. Their father, who was king of the country, married a very wicked queen, who did not love the poor children at all. They knew this from the very first day after the wedding. In the palace there were great festivities, and the children played at receiving company; but instead of having, as usual, all the cakes and apples that were left, she gave them some sand in a tea-cup, and told them to pretend it was cake. The week after, she sent little Eliza into the country to a peasant and his wife, and then she told the king so many untrue things about the young princes, that he gave himself no more trouble respecting them.”

He read and continued to read long after her breathing evened out and she had slipped quietly into the Fade. Only after he had finished the story did he close the book. Creeping out of the chair he slipped beside her, pulling her over warm body closer to his. There cradled in his arms she was safe to dream of things that never would be, of little feet on wooden floors and laughter ringing merrily through a home nestled in a forest. No evil witches or dark monsters haunted the glen in her mind, no troubled tale of sadness or woe weaved a plot. Simple happiness and homely wishes unfulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first paragraphs of The Little Mermaid and The Swan Princess do not belong to me.


End file.
